


The Luna Cycle

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Post War, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-27
Updated: 2008-07-27
Packaged: 2018-10-27 15:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Dean takes on a commissioned painting that is far more demanding than he has expected. Who knew fluffy little clouds were so intimidating?





	The Luna Cycle

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

_A/N: Thanks to aperryx for the beta work!_

 

 

He takes a deep breath through his nose as he let his eyes fall shut for a moment.  Hand raised, the brush loaded with a soft umber, he knows the process of making the bristles gently spread the color will soothe his somewhat-raw nerves.  He hates working on commission, hates it, and despite having promised himself he would never do it again now he has achieved proper acclaim, here he is, painting someone else’s version of beauty.

 

This, however, isn’t just any job, and when he agreed he hadn’t a single doubt about wanting to do this.  Of course, that might have been the Firewhiskey’s encouragement.  Harry Potter is his friend, was his schoolmate and dorm mate, is the reason he is alive, when it all comes down to it. Ginny may be his ex, but that was ages ago, and she has remained nothing but kind to him, which is saying something, as she has hexed another of her exes.  So he has agreed to do this, and must cope with the dread:  a meadow blowing in a gentle breeze?  Hippogriffs and owls?  He shudders slightly at the thought.

 

Dean opens his eyes and lets the first long upward stroke flow from his wrist as if the brush were commanding it. The subject may not have been his choice, or the location, but painting has long been therapeutic, once he recognized it as such.  There had been several years when painting was a true struggle, a weapon with which to combat demons he could not properly name and face, a double-edged sword he had not learned to yield, and his work had shown it.  He had been an up-and-coming potential prodigy, but reviewers always saw—correctly—the anger that lurked beneath the colors, creeping along the canvas under his undulating, charmed abstractions and portraits.

 

_“Why are your faces always so sad?”_

_“I’m not sad.  I’m smiling at the moment, if you haven’t noticed.”_

_“No, silly, not the one on your head.  All the faces you draw are all sad, even when they’re smiling.  Do you think you’ll ever get over the pain of this past year?  Do you think I will?”_

 

Shaking off the memory, Dean lets the brush command him.  He can picture the proper meadow easily enough—he has been to the Burrow and the surrounding area on several occasions—so he lets the bristles dance into browns and greens and grays, drawing great grasses and slowly shaping the gently rolling hills.

 

He has the skeleton frame of one of the two trees they have agreed upon, and is cleaning his brushes as Harry enters.

 

“How’s it going?”

 

“Well.”

 

“Good, good.”  

 

Dean watches as Harry stares at the wall, his face inscrutable.

 

“Er, isn’t that tree rather empty-looking?”

 

Dean steps back to regard his work.  “Well, yes, but this is just the first day.  I’m going to need a few weeks to do this.”

 

“Oh, right, of course.”  Dean sees Harry force a smile.  “You’re the expert, yeah?”

 

Dean forces a small smile as he looks at his feet.  It’s not a false modesty he’s feeling.

 

“Well,” Harry laughs a bit, “that’s what the _Prophet_ ’s Arts section says.  What do I know?”

 

Dean forces an equal laugh, and picks up his bag.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.”

 

“Good night, Dean.”

 

As he makes his way out of the front door and into the London streets, he has a creeping feeling that he really may not like Harry Potter very much.

 

_“Where do you want to live?”_

_“When, now?”_

_“Yes, now, and in the future.”_

_“Probably London.  I was raised there, and I’m more comfortable in the city.”_

_“Hmm, that may be nice for a while.”_

_“One thing is for certain—I never want to go camping again.  I’ve had enough of the wild countryside.”_

_“My house was in the countryside, but it was destroyed by the Death Eaters when they were after Harry.  I’m going to go back to Hogwarts until Daddy figures something out for us.”_

 

Two weeks later, there is a discernible meadow with two half-formed trees and several outlined creatures standing about.  The room itself is now quite cheerful, a far cry from its appearance when Harry first had brought Dean over to discuss the project.  A secret from Ginny, Harry is taking the front room on the second story of Grimmauld Place and making it more than habitable.  The one window is now enlarged to the width of three, which floods the room with sunlight.  The once dark-grey walls—three of them, at any rate—are a bright, grass-green at the bottom, and change into a soft sky-blue by the time they meet the ceiling.  The trim is a crisp white.  The fourth wall is Dean’s, for now.

 

The room’s rectangular shape gives him the widest space for the mural, a space he initially agreed would allow for the greatest play of color and movement but now regrets, as a smaller space would already be finished.  Harry has become positively unbearable, and he hates himself for hating a bloke he has known for so long, and who he knows is actually a decent human being, but each time Harry opens his mouth Dean cringes.  Every development in the mural brings questions, doubts, calls for clarifications, and requests for changes, all followed by a ubiquitous, “But you’re the expert.”

 

He dips his fresh, clean brush into white, then red, then indigo, and raises it to make tiny swipes on the tops of the designated green stalks, waiting for the calm to come.  His wrist and fingers work in tandem, creating spots of color that reflect a late spring bloom.  It’s a relief to not be working with greens and blues for a bit. He immerses himself in color and memory, trying to breathe in the peace his brush is creating.

 

_“See there?”_

_“Where?”_

_“There.  At the top of the hill.”_

_“You mean that pile of boards and rocks?”_

_“Yes.  That’s the one.”_

_“Your father can fix_ that _?”_

_“Probably not, but it’s still ours.  The irises my mother planted are still there, behind the dirigible plums.”_

_“You brought me all this way just to look at ruins and irises?  I’ve got things to do!”_

_“What things?”_

 

The memory is interrupted by the sound of Harry opening the door, and for once Dean is almost relieved.  Harry stands quietly for several long minutes, his face wearing that inscrutable expression Dean now finds entirely irksome.

 

He understands how Harry has had a great deal thrust upon him, and how people came to look to Harry for answers and action when he was so young.  He’s a competent leader to boot, but Dean wonders now if all that power at such a young age hasn’t warped the boy he met so long ago.  The skinny kid is unrecognizable in the face of this man, this man who feels free to demand deeper perspective and less dramatic shadowing without being able to name what they are.  Perhaps Harry, high on the chain of command in the Auror department and the Ministry at large, has simply gotten too accustomed to issuing orders and having them followed, but with each comment about the mural Dean wants to scream that he is _not_ under Harry’s jurisdiction, that he is not under anyone’s command at all.

 

“Are they supposed to be that color?”

 

“Hullo, Harry.  How are you?”

 

“Oh, sorry.  I’m fine.  You?”

 

“Great.  Now is what supposed to be what color?”

 

“Those flowers.  Aren’t they more purple-y?”

 

“Purple-y?”

 

“Yeah.  They look rather pinkish.”

 

“Pinkish.”

 

“That’s right.”

 

Dean lets out a loud sigh.  “Relax, Harry.  The paint’s not dry yet.  The irises will be more _purple-y_ when they dry.”

 

“Good, good.”  Harry pauses and Dean knows Harry is staring at him, and that his attempt to suddenly clean the brushes is a poor feint.  “You’re angry with me, aren’t you?”

 

Dean stares at him.  He would love to scream yes, to scream for Harry to butt the hell out of it and leave him alone, but he can’t bring himself to do it.  “No.  I’ve got a headache, is all.”

 

“Well, don’t let me get in your way.”

 

As the door shuts behind Harry, Dean stares at this supplies and cannot overcome the urge to bend down and start packing them all up.  He doubts he’ll be back.

 

_“Where will you go?”_

_“I dunno. Paris, most likely.”_

_“What’s in Paris?”_

_“The best Art schools.  I can learn proper wizarding techniques, like how to double-charm the paints and canvas for the most fluid movements.”_

_“That sounds like an important thing for an artist to learn.”_

_“It is, for a wizard at any rate.”_

_“And you can’t learn those techniques here?”_

_“It’s not just that.”_

_“It’s not just what?”_

_“I’m not just going to Paris for the Art schools and opportunities that are there—I’m going because of the things that aren’t there at all.”_

 

Weeks later, Dean’s head comes up as he hears the gallery doors open and he checks the clock.  It’s two, an odd time for a weekday visitor in mid-winter, but he has promised Van Patros that he would mind the gallery during the days he is out.  He has been working feverishly for the past three weeks and has turned out several canvases, two of which have sold already for a significant price.  They all depict the same subject matter as the large cycle that has brought him such fame this past year and a half, but are done from skewed perspectives, and all feature Greyback’s teeth.  The prices and the brief critical notice have only made the cycle, and by extension all of his art, all the more valuable and in demand.

 

He steps out of the studio and into the gallery’s main room, and is halted completely by the sight of the person he least and most wants to see.  She is standing in the center of the room, surrounded by herself.  _The Luna Cycle_ , twenty-eight very large canvases displayed in an enormous, circular room, is intact as he has not been able to bring himself to accept money for any one panel.  He has needed her to come and see it all.  He has needed for it to remain intact in order for him to feel intact, too.  Her presence now can undo all of it, or reaffirm what he had been feeling as deep as his bones.

 

“Hello, Dean.”

 

“Hello, Luna.  It is wonderful to see you.”

 

She smiles serenely, the only way she has ever smiled.  “It seems to me that you’ve been able to see me every day for quite some time.”  He lets out a small laugh.  “And that you’ve seen quite a lot of me, too.”

 

He laughs again.  “Well, artistic license and all that, you know.  I always said I wanted to paint you nude.”  He walks to her and opens his arms wide.  She falls comfortably into him.  “How long has it been?”

 

“Four years, but I think you know that.  Are you still seeing that French masseuse?”

 

“No, we split up when I left Paris last year.  How about you and the magical archaeologist?”

 

“No, we split two years ago in Greece.”

 

Dean reluctantly takes his arms from around her thin frame and gestures around him.  “So?”

 

Luna takes some time studying the canvases, but Dean has all the patience in the world for this despite his intimate familiarity with the paintings.  Each of the twenty-eight panels depicts her, in poses that are equally chilling, disturbing, peaceful and powerful.  She is moving slowly, gently in each frame, whether depicted beaten on the floor of a dungeon with a wolf about to pounce, or resplendent in the sky with a wolf baying at her feet.  These paintings are what has made Dean an international star, and have been featured in numerous articles.  Debate still rages in Art magazines as to the true meaning of the wolves, the teeth, the bared arms, and the softly glowing female who glides through them all, sometimes utterly defeated and sometimes master.

 

Ultimately, the paintings are also what have made him realize that it was time to return to England.  Painting them, he had felt as if he were coming to terms with the fear, the threat that would not leave him even after Voldemort’s demise.  But staring at Luna now and watching her study herself in relation to the wolves is bringing about a near paralysis.  If she does not understand, if she were to reject this vision…

 

“I hear that you will not sell a single one.”

 

“No.”

 

“They really only make sense when they’re all together like this, I think.”

 

Of course she would understand.  

 

“I think so too.”

 

“I like the dichotomy of Professor Lupin and Greyback, though a few are difficult to look at.”

 

Feeling silly for having doubted her, and knowing that there is no reason to further discuss his art, he gropes for proper small talk.  “For how long are you in town?”

 

“In town?  Just for today, I think.  But I’ll be in England for two more weeks.”

 

“Where are you staying?”

 

“Bill and Fleur have offered me a room.  Daddy’s place is too small for the both of us, and I do really like seeing their children.”

 

“I’m sure they love having you there to play with.”

 

“I hope so.  Speaking of children, I just finished lunch with Ginny.”

 

“Oh.  And how is she?”

 

Luna smiled.  “She’s big as an Erumpent!  She’s still not due for another month, and I’ve never seen her so excited.  You’ve seen her recently, haven’t you?”

 

“Not for a few weeks.”

 

“Oh.  I was under the impression that you were helping Harry with something for the baby’s nursery.  Ginny’s at odds because Harry still won’t let her in to see the room—not until you are done, he told her—and she wants to order baby furniture.”

 

Dean is split between sorrow for Ginny’s disappointment and annoyance at Harry’s determining when she can buy furniture for her own first-born child.  He holds that in, though.  “I’m sure whatever furniture she wants is fine.”

 

“Oh, it’s not really that, silly.  She’s a bundle of nerves about being a mother—the furniture is only a diversion.  She wants so desperately to be a good mother and to make Harry happy.  She said that this baby is the first thing that she and Harry can truly have to themselves without having to share with the world.  People do make a lot of demands upon them.”

 

As guilt is sliding sinisterly into his gut, he goes for a diversion.  “Well, they’ll be happy.  Tell me all about where you’ve been this past year.  It’s been ages since I’ve had a letter from you, Luna.”

 

Instead of answering, she reaches up and cups his cheek.  “I’m okay now, Dean.  So are you.  You don’t have to fear that working to help someone else achieve a goal is the same as succumbing to or running from a brutal authority.”

 

Deans shakes his head.  “I don’t know how you do it, Luna.  Is there anything about me you haven’t figured out?”

 

“Yes.  I’ve never really understood just how to make you happy.”

 

“Seeing you makes me happy.”

 

Luna looks carefully around again at the paintings.  “You see me here all the time.  We both know it has never been that simple.”  She sighs and turns toward the door.  “Take care, Dean.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Later, as Dean cleans his brushes in the second story of Grimmauld Place, he does not flinch when he hears Harry enter.

 

“I’m glad you’re back.  I thought the time might be cutting too close, now.”

 

“Sorry, Harry.  There were a few things I needed to sort out.  I should be done in two or three days, I think.”

 

“It’s brilliant.”

 

Dean is taken aback.  “You think?”

 

Harry shrugs.  “I know you’re famous for all those paintings of Luna, but most of them rather creep me out.  My favorite paintings are the ones you’ve sent to Teddy each year for his birthday.  This reminds me of those.”

 

Dean lets out a laugh that feels quite good. “The ones of _Goldilocks and the Three Bears_?”  He has sent one each year, no matter what else has been happening in his life.  While Luna makes the perfect Goldilocks, and he likes that, he always sees his own eyes staring at him from the faces of the bears, no matter how hard he tries to avoid it.

 

“Yeah,” Harry laughs.  “For one, Luna is wearing quite a bit more clothing in those.”

 

Dean lets out another cathartic chuckle.  “Yeah, well, she’s the perfect model for it, isn’t she?”

 

“That she is,” Harry adds.  “She’s still searching for some place that’s ‘just right.’”

 

Dean’s laughter dries up in his throat.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.”

 

_“You’re keeping in touch with little Teddy Lupin?”_

_“Of course.  I’d be dead if it weren’t for Ted Tonks, and then for Remus Lupin.  Ted told me once how he used to recite ‘Goldilocks’ to his daughter because it was the only Muggle nursery tale he could remember, and later he feared he developed in her an unhealthy love of living with animals.”_

_“Oh, I hope he didn’t really hate poor Professor Lupin.”_

_“No, I don’t think he did.  But he was relieved when I told him a few stories about what a great teacher Lupin was.  He said it helped him to remember that Lupin deep down was a good man more than he was a monster.”_

_“You miss Ted.”_

_“So?  You miss Ollivander.”_

_“Yes, but I’ll see him again, anytime I wish.”_

 

It’s finished.  Dean is feeling more self-satisfied with this than he thought he would.  He may not have liked the subject, or enjoyed much of the process, but he took on a job and completed it, and that is something in and of itself.  He Floo-calls for Harry to join him as he completes the last set of charms, the ones needed to allow for the movement of the clouds, the meadow, and the animals.

 

Harry practically runs into the room.  “You’re finished?”

 

Dean nods and gives him, finally, a legitimate smile.  It does feel great to have this done.  “You said you wished for slow, gentle movements?”

 

“Yes, definitely.”

 

“Once I set these charms, Harry, they can’t be changed, so when the baby is older and you want it a bit more exciting I won’t be able to alter anything.”

 

“Oh, no, I don’t ever want it to be anything other than peaceful.”

 

Dean nods and points his wand at the wall.  After a long series of intricate movements, a slow breeze makes its way across the tall grasses, through the wildflowers, and into the trees, which sets the owls flying about in large, lazy circles.  The owls ride the wind past the hippogriff, which starts grazing, then into the sky, touching off the serene rolling of the clouds.  The effect is extraordinary.  “Wow.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees.  “Will you stay until Ginny gets here?  She should be home soon—she’s just gone to lunch with her mum—and I think you should be here when she sees it.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to be alone for that?”

 

Harry nods, so Dean shrugs and nods as well, and the two sit on the floor of the furniture-less room, under the large window, and stare at the mural.   After a few minutes, Harry summons two bottles of ale.  “Dean, er, I’m sorry if I came off as a pain in the arse while you were doing this.”

 

Dean nearly splutters his ale.

 

“It’s just that this is all new to me.”

 

“It’s alright, Harry.”

 

“Look, we never finished negotiating how much I should pay you for this.  I know you’re famous and all, but I have no idea what art costs, so just tell me what you would get for something like this in that gallery your stuff is in.”

 

Dean has no idea where the next words come from.  “Don’t worry about it, Harry.  I don’t want your money.”

 

Harry looks surprised.  “Are you sure?  Because it’s not a big deal, really.  My parents left me pretty well off and I inherited this house, so just name your price and…”

 

“Just forget it, Harry.  You can buy me a drink sometime at the pub.”

 

“Alright, if you insist.  But if you ever need anything, from me, or the MLES, or the Ministry, just name it.  I mean it.”

 

Dean nods at him decisively, because he can see now that this offer comes not from bragging about having the Ministry in his pocket or from a desire to prove his power as an Auror; this is Harry looking to give away what he has, the way he always has, really.

 

The peace is disturbed by sounds from downstairs, and Harry jumps up and rushes to the staircase where he calls for Ginny to join them quickly.  Dean stands slowly, smiling at the sound of them floating in from the hallway.

 

“…really finished?  I finally get to see it?  I cannot wait! It’s been…”

 

“Gin, slow down, be careful!  It’s not going anywhere.”

 

“Of course not, but I still…”

 

Ginny cuts off her own speech with a loud gasp, which is stifled as her hands fly to her mouth.  Tears well in her eyes immediately.  “Oh!”  She breathes through her fingers.  “It’s perfect!  Absolutely perfect!  Oh Harry!”

 

She launches herself at Harry and squeezes him tight—as tight as her very large belly will allow.  Harry has grasped her around her shoulders and back, burying his face in her hair.  They both have their eyes closed, and Dean feels he in invading.

 

_“You’re beautiful, you know.”_

_“No, my looks are acceptable I suppose, but I’m not beautiful.”_

_“Yes, you are.  You are the most beautiful thing in this meadow.”_

_“No, Dean, I’m just…”_

_“Beautiful.  I’m the artist here, so I get to be the judge.  Back at Hogwarts, I used to think that I was so much set apart from everybody else, so much above, because I was an artist.  I thought I had all of this great insight into things that everybody around me missed.  As it turns out, the entire time you were right in front of me, and I had no idea of how beautiful you are.  What a fool I was.”_

_“No, Dean, you were never…”_

_“Yes.  You are beautiful, and I am a fool.”_

 

Harry and Ginny relax their embrace enough to look at the wall, and a minute passes before she notices Dean.

 

“Oh, Dean, it’s just lovely!  Absolutely perfect!  How can I ever thank you enough?”  She steps over to him and hugs him awkwardly, giving him a kiss on his cheek.

 

“Don’t mention it.”

 

“No, Dean, really, we are truly in your debt.  If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate, alright?”

 

He smiles and nods as he bends to pick up his bag, and Ginny returns to Harry’s arms.

 

Harry’s voice is rough.  “Do you really think he’ll like it?”

 

“Of course!”  Ginny’s voice brooks no opposition.  “How could he not love this?”

 

“I know you said the baby would stay in our room for the first few months while he is really tiny, but then he’s going to move in here on his own.  I just want to make sure that when he falls asleep at night it’s somewhere peaceful.”  Harry’s voice is getting gruffer as he speaks into Ginny’s hair.  “I want him to be able to wake up in the morning, sit up, and see the world.  I want him to see the horizon everyday.”

 

Making his way quietly out of the room, these words of Harry’s wipe any last bit of animosity out of Dean.  He sees now that the Harry who demanded changes, and perfection, and _his way,_ is not a hardened, power-hungry Harry, but the small boy who he had met at eleven, the boy whose first Hogwarts letter was directed to the cupboard under the stairs.

 

Dean turns one last glance at the mural over his shoulder as he exits.  The view is partially eclipsed by the still-embracing figures of Harry and Ginny, but the meadow around them is truly beautiful.  He allows himself another real smile as the hippogriff slowly glides through the clouds, and he walks out, leaving the door open behind him.


End file.
